Work of Art
by Meever
Summary: I didn't know you could paint." Oneshot, 8059, birthday fic.


A/N: Originally for Yamamoto's birthday. It's a bit late on the uploading of it, but whatever. It's kinda sloppy, kinda short, but I've taken to it already. So voila. Don't own, don't sue.

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Anything Yamamoto tried to say or explain was promptly ignored by a very concentrated Gokudera, the sound of brush meeting canvas in the empty art room. All had left earlier on that evening, going home or to after school activities. The teacher had a meeting in the staff room. The whole art room was left to them, and for once Gokudera didn't mind Yamamoto as much as he figured he should have. He simply dismissed his presence and continued to run the brush in quick, short strokes, jade eyes narrowed as he focused on the task at hand.

Originally, the painting was _supposed_ to be for Yamamoto's birthday. Gokudera was trying to go for something that was vague, possibly landscape. But with how impersonal that was and how much he figured Yamamoto would just wouldn't be all that into his newly acquired skill in painting, he figured he'd do it for himself and buy Yamamoto a dumb glove or something, maybe with a card.

The silver-haired teen was brought out of his thoughts by a hand on his own, taking the brush from him with another swift movement. His first reaction, of course, was to retailiate and spin on his heel towards Yamamoto and demand that he have the brush back or else he was to start throwing certain body parts in places where he knew the Japanese youth would certainly _not_ enjoy them.

"I didn't know you could paint," Was the simple sentence in response to the death threats and equally poisonous glares of daggers. The brush was examined with amber hues, from the red, wooden hilt of the brush down to the thickened with paintbrush. Gokudera would have replied, but he was already across the room near the sink, retrieving yet another brush. He wasn't going to deal with Yamamoto when he just wanted to be difficult like that. "It's cool. What is it though?" Yamamoto's chin was leaning on his shoulder, breath playing on his neck; warm, smelling of the cheesy pepperoni pizza that Gokudera had made them for lunch earlier that day, taking it to school with him of course. Yamamoto had practically devoured the thing.

"Don't worry about it, idiot." came the immediate reply, followed by an elbow to whatever part of Yamamoto happened to be in the assaulting area. But this was avoided, of course, and Yamamoto took his elbow, running a finger around the skin there, before gently releasing it. Not much was said afterwards.

Gokudera's jade optics gave a sort of sideways glance at him, a silver brow arched upon his pale forehead. In these eyes played a bit of humor, mostly surrounded by annoyment. Instead of heeding any sort of warning and threat from earlier he was good at that, Yamamoto spun him around and pressed lips against lips, being mindful of the paintbrush in his left hand. His right was touched to Gokudera's cheek. The Italian youth's response was a bit slower than Yamamoto would have desired public place, public display of affection, public, public, public, but it came nonetheless. And that's what brought on the spur of events afterwards; a flurry kiss anywhere that was presented, rough of course, with bites and a flash of tongue in between. Gokudera didn't expect it to go any further.

Yamamoto had other plans.

With his right hand moving from whatever groping and touching they were currently doing, and began to unbutton the many annoying buttons of Gokudera. With the shirt and undershirt gone, that's all he needed to set out on his task. With a simple shove and a laugh, Yamamoto had Gokudera on the floor, sprawled out angrily atop the canvas with paint possibly covering most of his back and backside. Angry curses were directed at Yamamoto, but he couldn't hear them through his smiles. Taking the brush from earlier, he straddled Gokudera and trailed the delicate brush along the curve of his neck, to where his collarbone was, making a few random hearts with the usual grin on his face. It was starting to creep Gokudera out. But no matter how much he shoved and pushed and demanded, Yamamoto would not budge, and kept moving the brush in slow, deliberate strokes. It went around the sensitive peaks of skin, making Gokudera ialmost/i squeak. It was a bit erotic, even though it was getting all over him and cleaning it was going to be a bit of a problem, or even the teacher walking in would be.

Whatever the case, Yamamoto kept up with the brush strokes, dipping the tip of it into Gokudera's naval, making a slight swirl there before going back up to his middle-section, and began to make more coherent things with the remaining paint on the brush. By the time he was done, Gokudera was squirming around on the floor - still on top of his canvas - with 'Happy Birthday Yamamoto' scrawled out upon his chest in blue-grey paint.

Consequences would be dealt with later.


End file.
